


Out Of The Woods

by TisNotButAPhaseMother



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other characters and tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TisNotButAPhaseMother/pseuds/TisNotButAPhaseMother
Summary: Newt Scamander dies. Or, at the very least, arrives at a doorstep of it.He's heard stories of those who had miraculously returned from that very same place, often describing approaching Death as a light at the end of a tunnel that they were suddenly dragged away from.That description, he finds, is just as accurate as it is infinitely simplified.





	Out Of The Woods

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander has woken up in the forest. 

He didn't remember walking into the forest, nor did he remember why was he there. A heady scent of pine, rotting wood and damp moss filled his nose and he felt calm - far calmer than the situation warranted, he knew - before he even opened his eyes. 

The beams of golden sunlight dancing between the branches gently blinded him, and he raised a hand above his face, watching the light cascade down over his pale fingers in wonder. 

It must have been a beautiful day above the roof of branches; even there, under the tall, ancient trees standing guard to thick green bushes and thorny plants, everything was bright and peaceful. The silence of the deep woods was filled to the brim with the noises of life, and something in him _floated_ on the warm wave of pure bliss. 

He sat up, and half expected the world to spin - a knee-jerk-intuition trained from many years of dangerous travels, when waking up in a strange place usually meant trouble preceding the awakening and a lot of pain following it. It didn't come, however. He felt... good. Far better than he had felt in a long time, actually, even though he could not remember _why_ was that, or how long of a time it might have been that he was _not_ feeling good - and wasn't that such a curious thought? He should probably remember, but only _thinking about thinking about it_ felt so impossible and pointless in that moment. 

He understood, on some primal level, that he should be scared. That he should be disturbed, or maybe even worried. 

But he wasn't, and so he let the thought go. It floated away like a dandelion seed in the gust of wind, and he stood up. 

Thick carpet of bracken surrounding him gently tickled his fingers as it swayed in the light breeze. Above him, a jay-bird called out. The leaves and branches rustled. The silence was so eerie it felt sacred, and he felt it squeeze in his chest, choking him up with a sheer awe. 

_"-ewt!"_

Even though muffled and as if from a great distance away, the ghost of a human voice was so out of place here it made him flinch. The world stilled a bit. 

Silence. Just silence, and the hum of the forest.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to listen as attentively as he could. He might have imagined it, it was so soft. Maybe he-

_"Newt?"_

He opened his eyes in surprise - everything around him sharpening as if someone had popped a protective bubble. The forest was still just as peaceful as it was before, but now the shadows were colder, the sounds more distinguished, the bracken more notable against his skin. The air turned crisper, too, he noticed as he whipped his head around, trying to find the source of the voice. 

He didn't recognize the voice or why it was calling, and he still wasn't disturbed - despite that little battle-worn tin soldier in his head that was poking at him that he should be. It still felt somehow _important_ , however. It felt _important_ in the same way it felt _important_ to follow the smallest of chirps into the bushes when he was eight to find out what was making it, or how it felt _important_ to pat his Ma's hand when she was upset, even though he wasn't sure why would it help; only that it had made her smile.

His legs chose a direction seemingly on their own accord and he followed it, the thicket of the forest brushing against his thighs and waist as he pushed his way forward. He was very glad that his pants were safely tucked into his work-boots, or else they might already be in shambles. He absently noted he didn't have his waistcoat, but that was okay; right now, it simply did not matter.

Quite suddenly, the restricting pressure of weeds around his body was gone and he found himself stumbling onto a trail. 

It wasn't wide by any means. Even standing in the middle of it, the undergrowth from both sides of the path kept brushing against his body. It was more like an unexpected gash in the bushes than a path; a harshly parted ocean of green. For some reason, it felt claustrophobic even though being in the thicket itself did not. 

He looked to both sides - as far as he could see, the path was narrow and straight on the right side, blurry with light at the end. He could see the forest ending there, the evening sun - _and when did it become so late?_ \- setting the trees and bushes ablaze with a scarlet flame. It looked beautiful, and warm, and peaceful. Newt itched to go see the sunset for himself, feel the warmth on his cheeks and fingertips. 

On the left side, the path was also narrow, and crooked. He could not see where it led, only that it was dark - so dark where it disappeared into even taller and thicker threes, and clearly continuing into deeper woods. As he stood and tried to judge what laid ahead, a cold breath of air from the dark trees hit his skin, and he shivered. In spite of himself, he took a small step back. 

Behind him, a jay-bird called out again. The rustling of leaves and branches sounded almost merry to his ears, and even so far away, he swore he could feel the warm light reaching for his skin, gently tugging him backwards. 

He took one last glance to the left, at the looming darkness of the trees ahead, the wilderness of the bushes, the cold shadows swallowing the trail as if burying a secret - and for a moment that untamed, unquenchable curiosity he was born with, the one his Da used to curse nearly every Tuesday during his childhood when it had regularly earned him scraped knees, burned palms and bitten fingers, had battled in his heart with the longing for warmth and sunshine. The woods to his left seemed tight-lipped, dangerous and murky, sure - but they also seemed to be hiding secrets. Secrets and things he was not able to imagine here, undisturbed and with the warmth at his back. 

Today, however, his Da would be relieved - because for once, the small voice in his heart yearning for warmth and safety has won, and Newt turned his back to the shadowy forest, slowly starting down the path towards the clearing.

_"Artemis!!"_

Realizing he has completely forgotten about the voice, his steps came to a staggering halt. It wasn't close, not by any means - but this time, even over the distance and the way the call was muffled, it was somewhat clearer. It seemed like it belonged to a male, and there was no denying the desperate edge to it now. The man's voice was raspy, breaking at the edges. Not scared; but rather laced with such hopelessness and exhaustion it carried even through the distance. It was as though the man was screaming his name from the top of his lungs for hours. 

It came from behind him. 

He turned around again, hesitating. He did not dream it, he _could have not_ dreamed it. It was clear as day that for whichever reason, someone, somewhere far, far away in those trees and darkening shadows, was searching for him. They might be hurt; they might be lost, or _he_ was lost. Although he didn't _feel_ lost, but maybe they thought he was. Maybe they also needed to get here, to the warm, setting sun, and did not know how. 

It occurred to him, once more on that experience-based, artificially created instinctual level, that the owner of the voice might not have good intentions; that he might not want to find out who they were and why were they in the shadowy parts of the woods in the first place. Why were they looking for him in the dark, screaming their throat raw. But some much more important, much older voice in his head told him that that was not the case. 

The anxiety that has flared up in his stomach had immediately simmered down to harmless ashes again. The second, older voice sounded like his Ma, whilst the first one spoke like the house-elf that pressed the elevator buttons at MACUSA and greeted him with the same monotonous tired tone every morning. That was enough for him to decide that he'd rather trust the former. 

(With the mention of MACUSA, a swarm of thoughts wanted to fill his head. Before he could grasp them, however, they floated out of reach - and so he returned to the problem at hand.) 

Indecisive still, he shifted from foot to foot in the middle of the path. The chill coming from the shadows was much stronger now, as well as the eerie silence. It seemed to amplify after that last shout. So did his senses, apparently, because each rustle of leaves, each broken twig, each press of a paw against a tree-bark was suddenly so stark he'd swear he could hear maggots moving in the soil. 

From behind him, it seemed to radiate calm. The soft glow of light was alluring, tugging at his body and heart in the ways he has never experienced before. 

He'd love to see the sunset. To touch that warmth for a moment, come out of these woods, before he inevitably plunged himself back into the dark. But then again, the dark was where the owner of the voice resided, and it just did not seem fair towards them to leave them alone in it. 

And besides, he knew - with a certainty so strong and so sudden it nearly brought overwhelmed tears to his eyes, he knew that if he went to see the sunset now, he would not be able to go back. He would not be able to help the voice. He was standing at unmarked crossroads and whatever choice he made, he might just have to stick it up until the very end - or at least until the end of the path. 

He did not question this knowledge. It just suddenly was, unwavering and solid as an oak, and so Newt let it be. 

He turned to the sun. It was beautiful; inviting, safe and _warm_. So very, very warm. He did not have to go search for The Voice. It was a risk he did not have to take, a sacrifice he did not have to make. Nobody would be mad at him here for it. Not even himself, he realized with no little amazement. The more he stared into the light, the harder it was to reprimand himself in the way he usually would. It radiated peace and acceptance, one that seeped into his very bones.

Yes, he truly would love to see the sunset. For some reason, it seemed so special to him. As if it held answers to questions he did not yet know to ask. The Voice only promised trying times and exhaustion. It heralded pain.

Taking a deep breath, he started at a quick, determined pace down the path, not looking back once. 

He felt last bits of sunlight like reaching fingertips slipping off his back and the cold shadows swallowed him.

—

There was beauty in the decay and shadow that was hard to name, but impossible to ignore when witnessed. It was like looking at a masterfully done painting of something terribly sad. 

Mushrooms protruded from rotten logs of wood and under the scattered rocks. Each of the rocks was covered with moss, the parasite also spreading over the fallen trees and branches, weaving a thick green carpet that swallowed everything the eyes could reach. The path was no exception, sometimes recognizable only thanks to bushes lacing its edge. 

In places where the underbrush grew into thick huddling of low trees, the moss was sometimes minutely replaced by grass so tall it reached Newt's chest. He threaded carefully, then, for these places were also ones where small fields of wetlands often appeared, deceptively hidden behind the wild grass. More than once they crossed the trail as well and he had to jump and wobble between small swamps, the pond runners madly running circles in the still water at his disturbance.

He smiled whenever he passed them, and it felt almost foreign. As if he could distinctly remember doing that with much more enthusiasm, once. Now it just felt foggy, as if he attempted to smile in a dream. 

The woods were endless, it seemed.

He wasn't sure for how long he had been walking and jumping between the ponds; the light, once he had passed that first curve on the trail and stepped into the dark, stopped changing. It was not pitch-black, but it was not daytime, either. It seemed that these woods were caught in the eternal state of owl-light, any brightness from above caught and dispersed by the tall, looming trees. 

Everything was grey and distant; even his thoughts.

For example: He remembered that he owned a wand and might want to know where it was - but immediately found that he did not care. He only had to walk, and he needed no magic for walking.

He remembered that Pickett should be with him. But Pickett usually resided in his breast pocket, and he had no breast pockets here. Therefore it made sense that he would not have Pickett, either.

There should be a humming of magic under his skin, much like there was a humming of the wild forest life all around him. But there was nothing, only silence - and since he didn't have his wand, anyway, he dismissed the thought. 

There should be someone by his side. People who might care that he took an unknown trail into deep dark woods without his wand or Pickett or his waistcoat - or anything else that seemed to be _important_. He did not even manage to properly finish that particular thought before it disappeared like a fog on the water. That was okay. He could not even remember who those people might be, or why would they care about where he went in the first place.

He should be at the very least getting tired. And he was - in his mind. He was getting so very tired of being in those beautiful, but grey and decaying woods. He wanted either night or day, he wanted to be either warm or freezing, he wanted anything that was _something_ , anything at all - but he only had grey, and he only had the quiet, tight-lipped woods, and the memory of The Voice and the despair it carried. 

There was nothing to do other than follow the trail, and follow the trail he did. With boots laced up tightly, suspenders properly clasped and shirt-sleeves rolled up, he felt like the boy from one of those muggle fairy tales going on an expedition with his animal friends. Christopher Robin his name was, he recalled. There was an echo of joyful giddiness minutely blooming in his chest, and then nothing. Much like any fear or worry, even this feeling was vanquished as soon as it came. 

He walked, and he only felt tired.

—

_"ARTEMIS!!!"_

When the scream came right from the trees in front of him, it was so filled with bleeding anguish and hopelessness it momentarily chased away the grey. After the initial shock, the dream-like haze he has gotten so used to was snappily replaced with concern and sharp awareness instead. They seemed to click into place in his mind like a book returned to its proper spot on the dusty shelf, and it was so sudden his head spun. He wobbled where he stopped cold in his tracks, heart racing. The shock surely wasn't pleasant, but it has also made him feel significantly less afloat and numb. 

"Oh deary," he murmured softly and started running despite his unsteady legs. Now was not the time to be swooning - he finally found The Voice, and up close it sounded more desperate than anything else he has ever heard in his life. Once again he didn't posses any memories proving this fact, but he simply _knew_ , and his heart clenched in sympathy for the stranger. Whoever it was calling for him, be it a foe or a friend, he doubted they could fake that raw pain in their shout that has sent chills down his spine.

"I'm here!" he called out, trying his best to reassure the stranger. The tall grass was tying itself into knots around his boots and thorny branches kept whipping at his sides and arms as he ran, but he didn't slow down. The Voice came right from where the path turned sharply. "It's okay, I'm right here!" 

He reached the turn, and stopped. His expression has morphed from the one of worry into confusion, his head tilting to the side almost on its own.

There was a table in the grass.

A sturdy, wooden table. 

It was so wide it couldn't fit the trail, its edges swallowed by the bushes on each side. A nice white tablecloth with flowery pattern laid over its surface, and two chairs stood facing each other by the edges. To get to the other side of the table, he'd have to either crawl under or climb over it, as he had long found out that even thinking of going off the trail filled his gut with so much apprehension it made him loath to try.

Both chairs were empty of guests, but the one on his side had his waistcoat hastily thrown over it. 

He made his way over to it with a strange mixture of surprise, relief and suspicion. Someone must have been here - someone must have set the table, and placed his waistcoat on the chair, and screamed his name. But the bushes were quiet and so far, the light hitting the scenery from above was the brightest one he saw for as long as he followed the path. And nobody was in sight.

His fingers touched the waistcoat with batted breath - but nothing happened. Silence preceded and silence followed. The wind whispered in the branches. 

He gingerly picked the waistcoat up, only to stop abruptly and stare at it in surprise. 

It was wrong. It was... _heavy_. He could not remember it ever being this heavy, not even when it was wet. He had to quickly adjust his hold on it, because lifting it up was like lifting up a satchel of thick books. Not impossible, but certainly not easy, either. 

He carefully turned the waistcoat in both hands and inspected the fabric with a furrowed brow. It was the same waistcoat it had always been - marigold yellow fabric embroidered with mishaps and small accidents throughout the years. A hardly visible stain from a clumsy potion handling; mending alongside the lower buttons from tearing them all away when chasing after a particularly skittish occamy hatchling; a repair work on the left shoulder from that one time a rather large clawed bird had decided to take a perch on it and Newt was too elated to receive such trust to even try and salvage his clothes (or skin); the whole cloth was like a collection of testimonies to his own clumsiness. He remembered all of these little Very Important Damages just as well as he remembered the scars and injuries littering his own body. 

By a simple glance, there was nothing wrong with his waistcoat. Even the flower-shaped talisman hanging from the front was in its rightful place. Except for magical meddling, there was no explaining as to why it would be so terribly heavy.

What a strange and seemingly random predicament it was; but then again, it still had breast pockets. And breast pockets were something he very much needed should he find Pickett, because Pickett liked to sleep in them. And he didn't mind wearing a tad-too-heavy waistcoat if it meant Pickett would be comfortable and safe and with him again. 

Convinced by this logical line of thought, he shrugged the waistcoat on - and had to catch himself on the chair to keep himself from falling. 

It wasn't so much the weight of the waistcoat itself. It was the myriad of feelings that flooded his chest when it slipped onto his shoulders. 

They seemed to be swarming, screeching, _scratching_ against his rib-cage like angry wasps with freezing stingers. He gasped through it, seeing blurry and clutching a shaking hand at his front. The feelings were so _cold_. He tugged at the waistcoat, intending to pull it off of his shoulders - but found that it was as light as ever. It was as if the cloth itself had lost all the weight and transferred it into his heart instead. 

He stood for a while, bent at the waist, and simply breathed. The feeling started to settle down and he found there really was no proper description for it, except for 'heavy' and 'cold'. It was so sudden and confusing he had to wipe at his eyes as he tried to gather his wits. 

He sniffled after a while longer and straightened up. The table was gone, and so were the chairs. The light from the above vanished and the shadows seemed thicker. 

Buttoning up his newly reclaimed waistcoat, he felt a tad more collected. More solid and real. Even with damp cheeks and trembling fingers, he felt a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips - and even better, it didn't get immediately chased away by grey. The grey simply wasn't there anymore, and it seemed that as long as the cold heavy feeling was nestled in his gut, he was allowed to keep the small smiles as well.

At the moment, Newt was almost all too relieved to feel _something_ to mind that most of those feelings were unpleasant.

He took a deep breath and looked ahead. Whoever was calling him was not here anymore, but in the distance, he could see a gathering of little lights. 

Curious - _and what a thrill to feel curious again!_ -, he resumed his journey. 

—

Garden party. It was a garden party. 

Newt wasn't a big fan of parties on a good day, finding them overwhelming and confusing . Here and now, he was already starting to feel horribly under-dressed and out of place - and he hasn't even fully left the tree-line yet. 

There were people roaming the majestic garden into which the forest has suddenly turned into. From what he could see, they were all clad in extravagant robes and masks - it was a costume party of sorts, it seemed. The sky indicated a late night and the whole place was illuminated by floating lanterns and colorful candle-lights. 

He brushed off his pants and straightened his clothes as best as he could, then cautiously stepped out of the trees.

Nobody paid him much mind, luckily, which was odd - dressed only in his work-clothes and worn down waistcoat, lacking any sort of celebratory wear and with hair certainly in an utter disarray, he was sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the elegant and richly dressed figures. Yet the guests moved and chattered around him as he made his way through the garden, completely unbothered by his presence. 

He gathered all the courage he could muster, took a steadying breath and lightly tapped a passing man in a lion mask on the shoulder. 

"Hello," he said when he assumed the man was looking at him. He could not know for sure since he could not bring himself to meet his eyes. "I am terribly sorry for the disturbance. My name is Newt Scamander, and I- well," he fumbled with his words, struggling to come up with the right ones. "Could you possibly tell me where I am, please?" 

He was looking anywhere but at the man. There he went with the stutter like a bloody school-boy again. He felt his cheeks darken with color and braced himself for the man to ridicule him, or even scold him for breaching what seemed to be a private party. 

He was greatly startled by the gentle hand on his cheek. Looking up in surprise, he found the man smiling softly at him. There was a sad tint to his smile, an emotional expression behind his mask that Newt could not even begin to place, and he quickly let his eyes fall down on the man's shirt collar. 

"You're lost, aren't you?" The Lion said. His voice was soft, and... kind. Kind, and somewhat sorrowful - just like his smile. Newt was very taken aback by this, eyes darting across gleaming black buttons on the Lion's shirt, his gloved hand burning against Newt's left cheek.

"Y-yes," he brought himself out of the trance, hands wringing together restlessly. "I think! I mean- I am not sure?" He glanced up at The Lion's chin and to the side shyly, his attention minutely ensnared by a glimpse of someone's shoes. Golden shoes. With very high heels. Those must be tremendously uncomfortable to walk in on the plain grass, he thought distractedly. And why on earth would anyone even pick heeled golden shoes for an outside party if they- wait, not the point. Talking. He was supposed to be talking to someone, and was most probably being very rude just now. He tore his eyes away from the shoes quickly, face warming up. "You see, I was looking for someone - in the woods, not here, I was not invited, so sorry for wandering in here without the invitation, by the way, that was terribly rude of me - and, well, I was looking for them, but they weren't there anymore. In the woods, that is. I mean, they might still be _in_ the woods, they just weren't at the place I thought I would find them, you see, and I- uh," he realized he went into a full on rambling, and stopped himself before he could possibly annoy The Lion any further. "Sorry," he breathed quietly, and pressed his lips together with a slight wince. 

Laughter bubbled out of The Lion's throat. It was a lovely, exasperated, _mournful_ sound and Newt suddenly found himself flooded with a small wave of nostalgia - like he should know the laugh. Like it should be much more familiar to him than it was. A picture of a young boy proudly showing off black robes with gold and red embroidery vacated his mind as fast as it had entered it. He blinked, eyes planted on the man's right ear. The hair curling around it was a dark auburn, and in the dancing candlelight it shone warmly. Despite his nerves, Newt found the reddish colour soothing.

The Lion stroked Newt's cheek with his thumb. If Newt knew the man, he would say the gesture was easy and fond. "I'm sorry, little one," he said, and there was no mistaking the sorrow in his voice. Newt wanted to gently point out that even though The Lion surely had four or five centimeters on him, he was anything but 'little' - but he did not want to be rude towards the kind man with such a sad voice, and so he held his tongue. 

The Lion stood for a moment in silence, then he let his hand drop limply off of his cheek with a sigh. "I really wish I could help you - but I can't." His voice was so filled with regret and shame and something else that was hard to pin-point, Newt immediately wanted to assure the man that he would be just fine. That he did not need to worry about a complete stranger who stumbled upon a private party without an invitation after crawling through the swamps all day - but the man already continued. "You might want to look to the trees, little one. I think they will be more helpful to you right now than I am." 

At that, Newt drew his eyebrows together in thought. "Trees?" he said, looking up. "I'm sorry, but could you please explain-" 

There was an empty spot where the man stood mere seconds ago. A quick glance around had proven that The Lion was nowhere among the masks surrounding him, either. 

Newt sighed, sweeping the ground under his feet with his eyes, and touched his fingertips to the spot that still burned from The Lion's palm. 

Trees, the strange but obviously kind man had said. 

He looked up and scanned the big garden with his eyes. The whole property was surrounded by a woodland, the black silhouette of it standing proudly like a fort around it. If The Lion had those trees in mind, Newt truly was at a wits' end on where to even start.

There was plenty of trees on the property also, however. It seemed from their shapes and sizes that they were mostly apple trees, with taller, sturdier kinds growing here and there. Just behind him, a crooked apple tree surrounded by flying lanterns and fairies grew from the soft grass. He stepped closer to it. 

"Hi," he said and touched the bark. "A Lion told me I should ask trees for help, and so I thought I could begin with you. I hope you won't mind." 

With that, he carefully started to inspect the branches. 

—

It wasn't until he was well away from the crowd and noise of the party, slowly working his way around a particularly tall cherry tree, that it had occurred to him that The Lion might have been making fun of him. The thought made him momentarily stumble as a cold pang of hurt resonated in his stomach. It was likely. He wasn't sure _why_ he thought it was likely, but he had a feeling of déjà vu surrounding the sinking feeling in his gut. Like he was very stupid for not realizing something sooner, when to everyone else it had been obvious from the start. 

His heart had just begun to race, the hand reaching for one of the smaller branches halting mid-air, when he heard a loud chirp. 

The pain in his gut momentarily forgotten, he looked up excitedly to see what animal had made the sound. It was a cherry tree, so maybe a resting starling? Or a squirrel, except the noise sounded nothing like a squirrel. It was so familiar, he was sure he knew the creature. If only he could see...

A twig above his head wiggled, then fell off the tree and right into his curls. It didn't stop wiggling, however, and instead let out another, even louder chirp. It sounded decidedly victorious. Newt felt his heart jump in his chest. 

_"Pickett!"_ he whisper-exclaimed, reaching out and gently tugging the creature into his palms. The bowtruckle looked up at him, chirping happily and holding fast onto his thumb. Newt felt something he didn't know was dormant in his chest stir and flood his rib-cage with an overwhelming warmth and relief. It was as if his heart was finally awake, and he felt a true smile spreading his lips. "Pickett, what are you doing here? I missed you! It's okay, mommy's here now, you're okay." 

The bowtruckle kept chattering at him wildly for a long moment, then it reached its tiny arms out towards his chest. 

"Yes, yes - alright, bossy!" Newt laughed, and gently helped the bowtruckle into his left breast pocket. "There you go. I had to go through the swamp to get this old thing back, you know?" 

With that, he remembered the party - and The Lion. So he was not mocking him, it seemed. Newt really did find help in the trees. He wasn't sure whether this was what The Lion meant, but he still would have liked to go and thank him in person. The Lion deserved much of his gratitude. He felt so much more complete, now, with one of his best friends safely with him again. 

Not that he could remember who the other best friends might be. He decided not to dwell on that thought. 

"Come on, Pickett," he said, starting to slowly walk back to the party. "We have a nice lion to say 'thank you' to." They could think of what to do next later. Everything is easier with a friend by your side, after all.


End file.
